


love is war, but sometimes you win

by Jmeelee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 18:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17771609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: Only now does Stiles spare Derek a glance, pitying smile falling short of shrewd, contemplative eyes that sparkle when they catch the dappled sunlight.  “The universe engraves a name on our skin, my friend.  If it was meant to be private, we’d have the name on our ass.”  Derek bristles.  They are not friends—at least, not yet.  At the rate they’re going, probably never  “I’m trying to protect my best friend, dude.  Questions aren’t illegal.”“Has anyone ever told you, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar?”Warm brown eyes lock on his.  “Do you want me to sugar you up, Derek?”“Why are you such anasshole?”With Isaac, Boyd and Erica, Stiles doesn’t act like this.  In fact, their two packs have meshed better than Derek could ever have hoped, but Stiles and Derek are still oil and water.“Asshole’s my middle name,” Stiles snarks back.“Then your soulmate is lucky it’s only yourfirstname written on their palm,” Derek sneers.Stiles shrugs, gathering up his supplies and moving along the property line.  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”





	love is war, but sometimes you win

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Welsh_Woman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welsh_Woman/gifts).



> For [Victoria.](http://welshwoman1988.tumblr.com/) I hope you have a day filled with love.

_ The burned hand teaches best.  _ —JRR Tolkien 

 

———————

 

“Electric-blue eyes and a black wrap over your mark.  What’d you do, kill your soulmate?”

 

Derek rears back in the chair like he’s been shot.  It’s not the words—they hurt, but people have accused him of worse— so much as the  _ gall _ of this guy.  Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall's second in command, is no wolf, but he goes straight for the jugular.  They’re fifteen minutes into an alliance negotiation and Derek’s face is already stuck in a permanent grimace.  He has no interest in the hollow ass-kissing neighboring packs subjected his mother to; he’d rather this new pack be transparent, but bringing out heavy artillery this early in the game is a slap in the face.  

 

The Alpha, Scott McCall, directs a manic smile toward Derek.  “Please excuse me and my emissary.” He drags Stiles away by the arm and bangs through the screen door, clomping down the porch steps out into the yard.

 

Six people remain, two on one side of the square table, four on the other.  When Derek and his betas had rebuilt the house, they’d intended this room for meetings such as these, neutral ground away from the bedrooms and kitchen, easily closed off but still in direct eye line of the front door. But over time it’s become a work and living space, no longer objective, glimpses of each Hale pack member obvious if one knows where to look.  Bookcases line the earth-tone colored walls, stuffed top to bottom with Derek’s books, some laying vertical, some horizontal. Erica’s elastic hair ties are hooked over the doorknob, one of Isaac’s scarves hangs on an armchair, a blade of Boyd’s ice skate peeks out from under the love seat. 

 

The tick of the wall clock rings out like gunfire, vibrating the blanket of silence flung over the room, until muted shouts march in from outside.  “The guy has balls, I’ll give him that,” Erica says.

 

Across from them, Lydia Martin pulls out coral lipstick, applying it dispassionately while she assesses the room, filing away all the minute details.  “I’d like to say he’s never rude and I have no idea what’s gotten into him, but I don’t like to lie.” She addresses everyone with her statement, tossing strawberry-scented curls over her thin, sweater-clad shoulders.  Her partner, Jackson, rolls his eyes. Boyd and Isaac acknowledge her with polite nods, and Erica’s red lips tilt in a half-smirk as she squeezes Derek’s knee under the oak table. He knows exactly what she’s thinking. Stiles is supposed to be a tactical advantage of this package deal— an emissary to serve both their packs— but the posturing and mistrustful glaring are more likely to besiege Derek’s sanity.  The banshee says nothing more, and everyone pretends they’re not eavesdropping on Scott and Stiles’ verbal smack down in the front yard.

 

“— saw the flash of blue before his eyes turned red.  Maybe we don’t want an alliance with—“

 

“Stiles, stop,” Scott begs.  “Derek Hale is a born wolf. We could learn from him.  And I’ve started a pack on his territory. A treaty means power, growth, stability.  _ You _ should want this, maybe more so than I do.”

 

Stiles scoffs.  “So he’s a born wolf, big whoop.  None of his betas are born wolves; they’re three teenagers he bit on a whim years ago.”  Derek digs claws into the seat cushion. He’d hardly call his choice in betas capricious.  “That doesn’t equal strength and stability to me. This land belonged to his family and it’s unfortunate, but his family is gone.  I know how werewolves get blue eyes, because I do my research. Is that the kind of pack you want us tied to?”

 

“We’re an Alpha—“

 

“True Alpha,” Stiles interrupts.

 

“—a human emissary-in-training, a banshee and a kanima.  On paper, he shouldn’t give us the time of day. But he  _ is _ , and I beg you, don’t fuck this up because you’re scared.”

 

His betas shift restlessly beside him, zeroing in like predators on the rapid-fire tempo Scott brings to their attention. What is this guy so afraid of?  Based on his opening salvo, it certainly isn’t Derek. 

 

Scott and Stiles are back inside the house two minutes later, standing shoulder to shoulder, once again a united front.  Stiles inclines his head toward Derek, a show of respect and submission. “My apologies, Alpha Hale. I was out of line.”  His sweet vanilla smell is tinged with the milk-sour scent of fear, and there’s a vein of belligerence running through his tone.  

 

Derek could make a big deal out of this.  He could accuse Stiles of hiding something, kick them off his property and challenge Scott for Beacon Hills, but he's experienced enough bloodshed in his brief lifetime.  If embracing a mouthy human gives his tiny pack the stability they crave, so be it. “Apology accepted.” Derek’s soul-mark, covered over by the swatch of black fabric he always wears, is in Stiles’ cross-hairs, and as their packs move forward with this alliance, Stiles Stilinski will never give him any peace.  

 

Derek turns toward Scott.  _ So be it _ .  “Let’s get down to business.”

 

*****

 

“Do you wear black because you’re in mourning?” Stiles asks, salty sweat dotting the back of his neck as he concentrates on strengthening the wards at the edge of Hale territory.  Stiles, Derek’s learned these first few weeks, is as much words as he is flesh and blood: intelligent, loyal, quick-witted, an accomplished fighter, and a rude, royal pain in Derek’s ass.  

 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Derek bites back, inclining his head toward the worn red cotton circling Stiles’ palm.  The eye-catching color is a flashing neon sign. 

 

“Nope,” Stiles draws out the word, never glancing Derek’s way.  “I’m not in mourning.”

 

Unbonded people wear hand wraps for all sorts of reasons.  The younger generation—which Derek is a technically a part of, despite sometimes feeling a hundred years old—are less conservative about concealing their soul-marks than their parents and grandparents before them.  If they’re not flaunting the script scrawled across their skin, they’re wearing a rainbow of colors to express how they feel about the name of their soulmate: violet for pride, pink for love, blue for sadness, green for guilt.  The endless array of colors, and emotions they claim to represent, are as fickle as the weather. Stiles’ red fabric could as easily indicate desire and passion as it could anger and hatred. “Tons of people wear black, it goes with everything.  It doesn’t always indicate mourning. Black is the most purchased color in the United States.” 

 

Stiles’ laugh is a sharp knife, digging into the soft space between Derek’s ribs.  “Thanks for the fascinating tidbit. Did you work in retail before becoming an Alpha?  Let me guess; you were the top salesman in the Pacific Northwest. Or maybe you’re a goth.   Should I call you Sourwolf?”

 

“You could call me Derek, and mind your own fucking business.  Soul-marks are private.”

 

Only now does Stiles spare Derek a glance, pitying smile falling short of shrewd, contemplative eyes that sparkle when they catch the dappled sunlight.  “The universe engraves a name on our skin, my friend. If it was meant to be private, we’d have the name on our ass.” Derek bristles. They are not friends—at least, not yet.  At the rate they’re going, probably never “I’m trying to protect my best friend, dude. Questions aren’t illegal.”

 

“Has anyone ever told you, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar?”

 

Warm brown eyes lock on his.  “Do you want me to sugar you up, Derek?”

 

Perhaps, if he weren't so cutting and cruel, that is exactly what Derek would want.  Stiles is not conventionally handsome, but maverick and mesmerizing; his small face with its over-sized eyes and wide mouth, petite button nose that crinkles when he smiles.  At other people, of course. Never at Derek. Stiles’ unwonted beauty is startling, a surprise attack when Derek looks at him.

 

“Why are you such an  _ asshole _ ?”  With Isaac, Boyd and Erica, Stiles doesn’t act like this.  In fact, their two packs have meshed better than Derek could ever have hoped, but Stiles and Derek are still oil and water.

 

“Asshole’s my middle name,” Stiles snarks back.

 

“Then your soulmate is lucky it’s only your  _ first  _ name written on their palm,” Derek sneers.

 

Stiles shrugs, gathering up his supplies and moving along the property line.  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

  
  


*****

 

Due to the extra insulation in the walls and the soundproofing of the bedrooms, Derek’s at the top landing before his ears pick up the chatter downstairs.  He halts, closing his eyes and casting out his hearing. These days, there’s a McCall pack member sleeping at the Hale House most nights a week. Derek’s secretly pleased every time he finds them tucked into beds or casually draped across his furniture, everyone’s scents co-mingling.  It’s homey; the chaos of extra bodies welcome after six years of being a small pack of four. But if it’s Stiles in the kitchen, Derek’s going the hell back to bed. 

 

Their rocky relationship has been marginally better—and a lot more awkward—since the climatic ceasefire two weeks ago.

 

“ _ Where’s Scott? _ ” Derek, half-awake, growled around a mouthful of scrambled eggs that morning.  Stiles had bombarded him yet again, and he refused to partake in the psychological warfare any longer.

 

“Still asleep?”  Stiles jolted in his seat, casting a wary glance at Derek’s murder face as he vaulted to his feet, chair tipping and clattering against the tile floor.  He grabbed Stiles’ hand in his, the press of cloth on their palms disconcertingly intimate, and marched Stiles down the hallway to one of the first floor guest rooms, slamming the door behind them. 

 

Scott, hair a tangled bird’s nest, shot up in bed, grinding sleep from his eyes.  “Uh, hi guys?”

 

“When I was fifteen I fell in love with a human girl named Paige,” Derek snarled, the shift rippling below his skin, threatening to burst forth, elongated canines digging into his lip.  

 

“What’s happening?” Scott asked, wisely directing the question to Stiles, assuming he’s the reason for the rude awakening.

 

“We’re doing this here, where you—“ Derek pointed to Scott—“can hear my heartbeat and know I’m not lying.  And you—“ he pointed to Stiles—“can finally shut the hell up. 

 

“Neither Paige nor I had soul-marks, but we thought if she became a werewolf too, the names would show up.  My mother refused to turn her until she was eighteen. So we drove into Nevada, to a pack I knew who turned underage kids.”  The words spilled out of him like blood from a wound, so fast he couldn’t catch his breath. “Their alpha gave her the bite.  But on the way home, Paige got sick. The bite didn’t take. She was suffering. You can’t imagine what it was like. It was…” Derek stopped, glared at Stiles.  “It was an act of  _ mercy _ .  I ended it.  And now my eyes flash blue during the shift.”  His heart was beating dangerously fast, dredging up the long buried memories like mementos of a nightmare.  Scott was stock still on his bed, head cocked, listening to Derek’s heart. Stiles’ mouth opened and closed like a fish.  “Are you happy now?” Derek spat.

 

“Stiles,” Scott urged softly.  “Come  _ on _ .”

 

Stiles blinked.  “No, I’m not happy, I… I should tell y—“

 

“You’ve been out for blood since we first met,” Derek charged on, cutting Stiles off at the knees.  “It’s easy to play at war from a high tower, Stiles, but shit looks different when you’re in the trenches.  Doesn’t it?” 

 

He stomped to the door like a petulant child, throwing it open to reveal Erica, Boyd and Isaac, reaching for him, desperate to soothe their agitated alpha.  

 

They’d ended up on the living room couch, limbs twisting together.  Lydia and Jackson joined later, sitting on the floor and tentatively wrapping their fingers around the skin of Derek’s ankles, anchoring him.  Scott and Stiles came trooping in around lunch time. Scott plopped down, stretching his arm over the back of the sofa like a cheesy pick-up maneuver, fingers tangling in Derek’s black hair.  

 

Stiles stood shame-faced before Derek.  “I’m sorry.”

 

“S’fine,” Derek, lulled by body heat, smell and touch, didn’t have the energy to fight anymore.  “I’m not a killer.”

 

“I  _ know _ , Derek” Stiles replied.  “I realize it doesn’t seem like it, but blood’s the last thing I want from you.” He’d held out his red-wrapped palm.  “Truce?” 

 

It was Boyd who’d grabbed it, pulling Stiles down so he’d sprawled over Derek’s lap and the pile of bodies.  “Oh wow. Hi there,” Stiles quipped, but he wedged himself into the sliver of space beside Derek, staking claim to the real estate, and everyone dozed off until dinner in a tangled heap, a sense of rightness settling over Derek, filling his chest with warmth.   

 

So now they’ve both retreated to their foxholes, awaiting the other to make the first overture.  Derek’s doing the mature thing, and avoiding Stiles like the plague. 

 

But his senses tell him Stiles is not here this morning.  He smells bacon frying on the stove, and hears the tinkling of teaspoons stirring sugar into coffee mugs, and Lydia asking Isaac, “How old are you?”

 

“I’m twenty four,” Isaac responds.  His footsteps shuffle back and forth across the tile floor, ceramic plates thunk against the tabletop.  “You?”

 

Derek stands statue still, following their dialog.  

 

“Twenty-three, like Scott and Stiles.  We went to school together. Jackson too, but he was a year older.”

 

“Did your marks show up in high school?”  Derek knows what Isaac is trying to ask.

 

“They did.  And they stayed after Jackson was turned.”  Apparently, Lydia knew what Isaac was asking too.

 

Eggs crack and sizzle in a hot pan, and Isaac declares, “I used to have a name, before I became a werewolf.”  Soul-marks appears on the palm when a person sets out on their life path. It’s not the overblown, romanticized  _ one true love _ Hollywood sells, so much as it’s  _ compatibility _ ; two people who fit best in the lives they’ve chosen for themselves.  Though it doesn’t happen often, a name can fade away in the natural ebb and flow of life, as paths change and people evolve, as it did for Isaac almost immediately after Derek bit him.  Sometimes, people get new names—often if their soulmate dies. In some rare cases, people have more than one name.

 

“Do you wish you still had the name?”  Derek had asked Isaac the same question, and he gives Lydia the same answer Derek received six years ago, heartbeat as true and steady now as it was back then. 

 

“When I had the name, I had an abusive father, and no control over my life or my safety.  My brother died and I was alone. Now I have a pack, a family. I can take care of myself.  No one can hurt me like my father did ever again.  _ This _ is the path I want to be on, whether it brings me a soulmate or not.” 

 

“I’m sorry, Isaac.  Love and war always go hand in hand, don’t they?” She laments.  “Life can never be simple.” 

 

Derek’s fingers ghost over the soft fabric covering his soulmates name.   

 

Silence stretches between Isaac and Lydia, sweet as molasses.  “It’s not all bad, though,” he tells her. “Sometimes love is war.  But sometimes, you  _ win _ .”

  
  


****

 

“Has Scott removed his hand wrap in front of anyone?” Derek asks Erica as they practice take downs in the yard.  

 

“Yeah.  He took it off when we went swimming at the pond last week.  There’s definitely a name, but I didn’t look closely, if you’re asking.”  She dodges a swipe and lunges forward, jamming her shoulder into Derek’s stomach, upsetting his balance and sending him sprawling onto his ass.  The grass stains will be a bitch to get out of his jeans.

 

“It doesn’t matter what the name is.  I was just curious,” Derek replies, grasping Erica’s proffered hand.  The fact Lydia and Isaac freely discuss soul marks, and Scott, who’s worn a dark brown wrap every time he’s come to the Hale house, trusts them enough to display his name, is monumental.  Their alliance is turning into something greater than Derek or Scott ever anticipated. 

 

“Stiles didn’t take his off, even when he got into the water,” she supplies as they circle each other, searching for weak spots.  

 

“I didn’t ask about Stiles,” Derek grumbles.   _ At least out loud. _

 

Erica is all angelic blond curls and wide-eyed innocence as she whispers, “But Lydia did tell me it’s a guys name.”

 

“A guy?”

 

She sweeps Derek’s legs in a vicious kick, and he’s flat on his back staring up at pink clouds, breath rushing from his lungs in a painful whoosh.

 

“Yup,” she smiles down at him, beautifully back lit by the setting sun, all pretense of innocence gone.  “But you wouldn’t care about that. Would you, Derek?” 

 

*****

 

It doesn’t happen overnight, but slowly the battlefield between them becomes a landscape in which they peacefully coexist, and Derek finds life with Stiles Stilinski, when not in a constant state of conflict, is strangely easy, as natural as breathing. 

 

They gain the ground slowly.  Derek passes Stiles a book, and Stiles’  _ thanks dude _ is accompanied by a good-natured slap on the bicep.  Stiles’ hand is on Derek’s shoulder as he leans over the couch to grab his laptop, trusting Derek to keep him steady.  There’s a swift swat or playful poke to his chest when Derek cracks a joke, a gentle tug on his shirtsleeve accompanied by  _ sit stay eat talk _ . Derek complies with each request.  It’s subtle, but after holding back for so long, they leave their conflicts behind, and Stiles starts leaving his scent all over Derek.

 

It’s the final piece of a puzzle locking into place.

 

There’s never a dull moment between them, and Derek likes it, more than he should.

 

*****

 

Derek and Boyd are driving the Camaro, and Scott and Stiles are in the Jeep, on their way to Oregon for peace talks with a neighboring pack.  At a rest stop on the highway, Boyd and Scott file off to purchase provisions, while Derek and Stiles fuel the tanks.

 

“Promise not to attack their alpha if he’s wearing a black hand wrap?” Derek jokes.

 

“Fuck you, dude.  The mixture of blue eyes  _ and _ black wrap made me suspicious, if you recall.  Hopefully their alpha will be a little less broody and mysterious.”  Stiles replaces the nozzle, and pokes Derek in the forehead with a gasoline-scented finger.

 

“I’m not mysterious,” Derek retorts.

 

“You didn’t refute broody.”

 

Derek worries the wrinkled fabric on his hand.  “People always say they want to hear the story of your mark, but they want  _ happy _ stories, not bombshells.”

 

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, tucking his own soul-mark under his armpit.  “If you want to tell me, then I want to hear.”

 

Derek does want to tell him.  There’s a lot he wants to say, too much, but for now he starts with, “Mine showed up when I was sixteen, as my family home was burning down, with my family trapped inside.  That’s why I keep it covered.”

 

“Oh, shit,” Stiles whispers, stepping away from his car and unfolding his arms.  His hand shakes as he reaches up, places it lightly on Derek’s shoulder. “Derek,  _ what _ ?  What happened?”

 

“I made the decision to trust someone I shouldn’t have, and got my family killed.  It’s also the decision that set me on the path to finding my soulmate. I’m not trying to be mysterious, or secretive,  I swear. I lost everything to gain this name. Some days… the trade off feels really fucking unfair. It’s not a story anyone wants to hear, so I never tell it.”

 

Scott and Boyd are exiting the store, playfully shoving each other as they head across the parking lot.  “Thank you for telling  _ me _ ,” Stiles says. A breathless, urgent note.  “And I  _ do _ want to know, Derek, happy or sad.  I want to know everything about you.” 

 

Stiles greets Scott and Boyd as they approach.  “Hey. Let’s switch it up. I’m riding the rest of the way with Derek.”  

 

Boyd raises one eyebrow at Derek over the roof of the Jeep as Stiles tosses Scott his keys, sliding into the passenger seat of the Camaro.  To anyone else, the minute gesture would be unnoticeable, but for Derek it speaks volumes. 

 

As the engines roars to life, Stiles lowers the music, resting his head against the seat.  “Now,” he says as they merge onto the expressway, “tell me more.”

 

*****

 

Derek pushes Stiles’ feet off the coffee table, but they’re back in no time, socked-toes dancing to a beat inside his head as he taps away at his laptop, alternately writing an essay and streaming funny cat videos.  There’s a blanket Derek’s grandmother knitted flung over Stiles’ lap, and the low light from the computer screen highlights his face in blue and purple, the colors blooming like bruises on his paper-white skin. Derek can’t help but picture stark black handwriting against the pale canvas of Stiles’ palm.

 

Scott and Isaac are out for a run in the preserve, and the mated pairs—Lydia and Jackson, Erica and Boyd—are at the movies.  Derek is surprised Stiles, who is a huge movie buff, didn’t insinuate himself into their double date, and says as much.

 

“Those jerks aren't going to watch the movie,” he tells Derek.  “They’ll just make out in the back row of the theater.”

 

“You have a point.  Reviews say it’s a pretty sappy romance.  If my sister, Laura, were alive, she’d have gone with them.  She was  _ obsessed _ with rom-coms.”  Weekend movie marathons with Laura always included salty buttered popcorn and cookie-dough ice cream, and his sister’s love-struck face as couple after couple found their soulmate on the big screen.

 

Stiles smirks.  “Who isn’t? We claim to hate them, but we can’t help ourselves.  We’re in love with love.” Stiles mimes the overplayed hand gesture appearing in every romance; soulmates placing their marked palm directly over their true love’s hearts.

 

Derek shoves a bookmark into the spine of his novel and snaps it closed.  “Laura had a favorite she watched over and over. She could quote three-quarters of the dialog.”  Derek repeatedly snaps his fingers in front of his forehead, eyes closing as he tries to visualize the title sequence scrolling along their old television set.  “It had a cop in it.”

 

Stiles sits up straight, shoving the laptop off his lap.  “ _ Perfect partners _ ?” He asks, shifting to the edge of the cushion.  

 

“No.”  Derek shakes his head.  “That was about the NYPD detectives hiding their soul-marks.  This one was about a girl who got into a fender bender after noticing her soul-mark has appeared, and the cop who showed up to write her a ticket was her soulmate.”

 

“ _ Love’s a Wreck!” _ Stiles flails so hard he falls to the floor, blanket tangled around his knees.  “A classic!” He fist pumps the air next to the coffee table. 

 

Derek laughs.  “I was always partial to  _ Just My Type, _ where the author’s biggest fan was his soulmate. ”

 

Stiles’ quirky smile is teasing, a take-it-or-leave- it glance.  “My favorite is  _ Dough Mates _ .”

 

“The one about the bakers?!  No, that one’s the  _ worst _ !” Derek laughs again, rolling his eyes.

 

“Quit judging, Hale!  A boy can dream!” 

 

Derek reaches down, grasps Stiles’ hand to pull him out of the trench between the couch and the table  Their palms press together, and Derek thinks  _ if we were soulmates in a romance movie our whole bodies would be tingling right now. _  In reality, it’s scientifically proven soulmates feel nothing special when their marks touch. Stiles holds his hand a second too long, and it makes Derek ask, “Do you?  Dream about meeting your soulmate?”

 

Stiles dusts off his ass, perching on the edge of the coffee table and facing Derek.  His breathing and heart rate are steady, but Stiles grips the wooden table so hard his knuckles are white.  

 

“I used to feel this...anticipation,” Stiles admits, “for what those people in the movies had.  But by the time I was old enough to understand the complexities of love and sex and relationships I was seeing on TV, I’d had the mark so long the desperation was kind of muted.”

 

“How old were you when your mark appeared?”

 

Stiles hesitates.  On the cushion beside Derek Stiles’ forgotten laptop belts out an upbeat tune and an occasional  _ meow _ , but Stiles is impervious.  He has vacated the room at the question, grimly focused elsewhere.  “Five.” 

 

“ _ Five years old?!” _  Derek exclaims.  It’s not unheard of, but it’s certainly way younger than normal. For most people, soul-marks show up in late high school or college, or after they chosen a career.  “It’s like a Disney movie.”

 

Stiles grimaces.  “Trust me. Living with it was less fairytale-esque.”  

 

“What instigated the mark?” Derek asks, unable to imagine what decision of such gravitas a child could make to alter the course of his life, what path he could travel for so long without straying or changing his mind.  

 

Stiles locks eyes on his own hand, toying with the end of the fabric like he wants to rip it away.  “It was Scott.” He chuckles, mouth going soft at his childhood memories. “I walked up to Scott at recess the first day of kindergarten and asked him to be my friend.  We were playing in the sand box when my palm started to itch like hell.” He stiffens, cards long fingers through his hair before he looks Derek in the face. “It isn’t Scott’s name.  But it was, uh… it  _ is _ a boy’s name.  A man’s name.”

 

Erica's told him as much months ago.  Derek bears a man’s name as well. He’d known, at sixteen, that men were attractive, but being with one, being mated to one, wasn’t something he’d considered.  At the time it had felt like yet another blow he couldn’t rally from. If he felt like that as a teenager, he can’t imagine how Stiles, a  _ child _ , reacted. “It must have been difficult, being so young.”

 

Shoulders bunch up around his ears, and release.  “My parents instilled in me that having a boy’s name on my palm was not bad or wrong in any way, but any name—let alone a same-sex name—on a five-year old, causes a  _ reaction  _ in a lot of people.  I learned early and learned hard; kids, teenagers and adults can be the absolute worst when it comes to someone different. It doesn’t take much energy to poke fun at someone slightly off the norm, and even though eventually almost one hundred percent of the population ends up with soul-marks,  _ this _ —“ he waves his wrapped hand like a white flag— “was a target.

 

“When I was a teenager, I watched names bloom like flowers on my peers, and it made me think about free will.  Supposedly, these marks aren't steering us;  _ we’re _ steering  _ them _ , with our choices, our decisions.  But when the mark’s been a part of you since you can remember, it’s hard to separate what you decided on your own, and what it decided for you.

 

“There is one thing I can say for fate, or magic, or biology—whatever the fuck causes the mark to appear.  Scott McCall is not only my best friend, he’s my brother. He’s the cataclysmic intersection of my life. I stuck by his side when he was turned into a werewolf.  I’ve never left him, no matter what, and I never will. And the mark has never left me.”

 

“You keep it wrapped in red because you’re angry?  You hate the name?” The color choice makes sense now.  Who wouldn’t be resentful of losing their childhood?

 

To his surprise, Stiles laughs.   _ That _ laugh.  Like no other.  “Not at all. Most of my life, I wore black.  It’s the most popular color in America.” Stiles winks.  “My relationship with the name has always been volatile, but I’ve never regretted it being there.  Maybe one day this man and I will be together, or maybe we won’t, but the color choice has nothing to do with it.  I changed to red after Scott got bit, and I kept finding myself the only human in a room full of big bad wolves.” He sniggers.  “I’m little red riding hood. Er, red riding  _ wrap _ , I guess.”

 

Derek rubs his hands over his face, groaning at the ridiculousness.  “I should have known.”

 

“Well,” Stiles says, “now you do.”

  
  


******

 

Derek’s barely glanced at his mark in years, besides the perfunctory cleaning of the area, but tonight he finds himself peeling off the dark fabric and staring at the name, much like he did when it carved itself into his skin at the age of sixteen, raised like the skin of a new tattoo.  The familiar cocktail of emotions still churns in his gut when he traces the capital  _ M _ with his thumb.  Guilt and excitement are the top notes, followed swiftly by shame, but now jealousy and longing are mixed in—a potent combination that leaves him with a headache.

 

He’s been swearing up and down the black cotton he wears doesn’t mean he’s in mourning, and it’s  _ true _ , but he’s beginning to grieve the fact it’s not Stiles’ name on his palm.  

 

*****

 

When the frost-covered corpses of children show up around Beacon Hills sans livers, the McCall pack holes up at the Hale House, researching all hours of the day and night.  It’s Stiles who makes the connection, figuring out it’s likely a Yuki-Onna.

 

“I know who we can call.”  Derek digs through the few belongings that survived the house fire, pulling out his mother’s contact book.

 

Both packs gather around Derek’s phone as they dial Noshiko Yukimura, a Kitsune and former adviser to Talia Hale, who’d moved to New York with her family years ago.  “Can you help us, Mrs. Yukimura?” Stiles asks after he recounts their tale. “Will you come back to Beacon Hills?”

 

“I can not,” she tells them, voice thin and metallic as it echoes through the phone speaker.  “My work in Beacon Hills is long done. But I will send my daughter to you. She is a Kitsune as well, and will protect and assist your packs as you prepare to banish this demon.  She will come immediately. Her name is Kira.”

 

Every head in the room swings toward Scott, like puppets on a string.  “Oh,” Scott says, dumbly. “Shit.” He glances at his own palm, which proudly proclaims  _ Kira _ in bold, looping script, and promptly passes out.  

 

*****

 

An icicle pierces the meaty flesh of Kira’s shoulder, ripping a shrill scream from her mouth.  Scott’s across the snowy clearing and by her side before her katana hits the ground. 

 

“We need to do this, now!” Isaac shouts, dodging the Yuki-Onna as it rushes him, open mouth a black, gaping void trying to suck out his soul.  He swipes at her with a clawed hand, and she turns to mist, only to solidify ten feet away, right next to Stiles.

 

Stiles is kneeling over the iron bucket, white-hot heat emanating from his palms as he boils and blesses the water inside.  He needs more time, so Derek does the only thing he can. 

 

“Stiles!” Derek howls, rushing toward him and the demon at full speed.  Frigid wind is in his face, tears freezing at the corners of his eyes. The Yuki-Onna’s kimono is so white it’s transparent, and Derek can see the moment Stiles turns toward the sound of his name and sees Derek coming.

 

It’s now or never. 

 

Stiles grabs the rim of the bucket, red-hot iron searing the skin.  “ _ Water _ you having for dinner?  Not us, bitch!” The Yuki-Onna throws out her hands, shards of ice as sharp as glass flying at Stiles as he stands, shredding his jacket and slicing his face.  The boiling water leaves the pail in a steaming slow-motion arc, landing on the demon with a sizzling hiss.

 

All that remains is a crater in the snow on the forest floor.

 

Derek doesn’t stop running until he reaches Stiles, who’s cursing like a sailor and desperately ripping at the charred binding on his hand, digging his digits into the snow to get relief from the burns.  “Oh god, are you okay?” Derek desperately grabs Stiles’ wrists, pulling his arms from the white powder to examine the wounds in the moonlight, ready to take Stiles’ pain.

 

“Is anyone going to mention the horrible water pun we were all just subjected to?” Jackson asks, a slight hiss to his words as he shifts back from the Kanima.  

 

And normally, he’d be all over the terrible play on words, but he can no longer speak, his understanding of language savagely undermined by what he sees, what requires his undivided attention.  

 

On Stiles’ pink, blistered palm is Derek’s name.  

 

*****

 

They sit side by side on the edge of the white bathtub, Stiles uncharacteristically quiet as he watches Derek unravel the black cloth from his own hand. In the strained silence there are dozens of iterations of Stiles parading across the cold tile floor: Stiles at their first meeting, hopeful eyes widening in alarm when Derek’s eyes flash at Scott, Stiles in the preserve weaving invisible wards and tangible walls, Stiles in the pack pile melting on Derek like vanilla ice cream, perfectly complimenting everyone, Stiles in the pantry bemoaning the lack of pop-tarts and making Derek laugh.  They speak to him now, all at once, jockeying for position in Derek’s heart, but none screams louder than the Stiles on Derek’s palm. 

 

When the name is revealed, Stiles reaches across the divide, banishing the other versions like ghosts of war, tracing the slanted letters with his raw fingertip.  

 

_ Mieczyslaw _ .

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Derek whispers to them all. 

 

“Who wants to own up to a name like Mieczyslaw?” Stiles jokes weakly.

 

“In the beginning, when you thought I was a murderer, or a danger to your pack,  _ that _ I understand.  But it’s been almost a year.  You and I…” There’s always been something between them; he’s sensed it, the way his wolf senses a brewing storm, and he knows Stiles feels it too.  That odd mix of tension and commitment, even while Stiles was sniping at Derek with his words. “ _ Why _ ?”

 

“You said it yourself, Derek.  You had to lose everything, your home, your family, to get my name. I never told you because I could never be enough.”  It’s heartbreaking to hear such utter defeat. 

 

“Don’t you know?” Derek asks, turning toward him.

 

Stiles shakes his head. Derek can’t stop touching him, fingers dancing feather-light over his face, neck, arms,  _ hands _ .

 

“This house wouldn’t be a home, this pack wouldn’t be a family, and I wouldn't be whole without  _ you _ .”  Derek opens his hand wide, finger spread as far as they will go, and places his palm over Stiles’ heart; the sappy, overused gesture seen in every romantic soulmate movie.  Derek fully expects Stiles to laugh or roll his eyes, maybe push him backwards into the bathtub. 

 

But instead, he mirrors the gesture, placing his own palm over Derek’s heart.   _ Isaac was right _ , Derek thinks.   _ Sometimes you win _ .

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, voice wet.  “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Sterek-Events2019](https://sterek-events2019.tumblr.com/) for running this awesome exchange. I'm [Jamie.](http://jmeelee.tumblr.com/) Thank you for reading!


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